


looking for a way home

by wildewoman_22



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewoman_22/pseuds/wildewoman_22
Summary: Over an evening discussion of a pitch, Peggy shares some news.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set around three years after the finale. I'm in the camp that believes Don went back to McCann, and of course Peggy is still working there. I do love their twisted dynamic (when Don isn't treating her horribly), so this is my short attempt at capturing it. 
> 
> Title from 'The Great Escape' by Patrick Watson.

“So then the scene changes, we see that the cowboy is actually Mom, then she and the kid sit down at the table and they both grab a cookie at the same time – Mom smiling as big as the kid, with the cowboy hat on and everything. I think the tag could be something like… ‘A little bit of joy in every chip,’” Peggy pronounces with a half-hearted flourish, tapping her pencil against her notepad. The mid-October sunset slants through the blinds of Don’s office, muted golden light casting shadows across her lap.

Don shrugs at her from behind his desk. “So? What’s the issue? It’s good,” he says, reaching in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Use it.”

“I just think we should be trying to sell to adults _and_ children, but they won’t let go of the Cookie Man superhero thing. It’s overdone.” Peggy wrinkles her nose in disgust. There’s a pause, and then the old leather of Don’s chair creaks as he leans back, a hint of a smile playing across his lips.

“What does Ted think?” He blows smoke out the side of his mouth.

“That it’s good, but it’s pointless. They just want Cookie Man. Of course he’d take their side – he’s so sure they won’t go for another idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because clients are clients.” Peggy waves her arm in exasperation. “It’s different, so they don’t want it.”

Don’s brow furrows in confusion. According to her, she’s been working herself to the bone for this pitch for the past week. “Why are you putting all this effort into this idea when it’s not even the strategy they want? You're chasing your tail." His tone holds some of the old condescension she remembers back from when he was still  _Mr. Draper_ , and it sends a spark of anger fluttering up her spine. “Because it’s a good idea! Nobody here wants to – to challenge themselves, and God forbid we try to get clients to want something new and exciting for once. Sorry I asked,” Peggy snaps, getting up from her chair.

Don scoffs. “What do you want me to say? I’m nowhere near Nabisco, Peggy. I don’t know anything,” he says curtly. Peggy tosses her hands in the air, pent-up frustration rolling off of her in waves. “That’s why I’m asking you!” she exclaims. “Everyone’s too close to it - nobody seems to care that we’re just doing the same old shit!”

They stare intently at each other in the wake of her outburst. Just as quickly as her anger built up, it suddenly leaves her in a rush – tension melting from her shoulders as an embarrassed flush colours her cheeks.

“God,” she says, walking over to drop on the couch, “I’m sorry.” She’s staring at nothing in particular, and suddenly Don notices how exhausted she looks – the purple shadows under her eyes look more like bruises in the increasingly dusky evening light. Over the years, they’ve kept gradually fewer tabs on each other as their work lives at McCann become less entwined, but they still share the occasional after-hours drink at the office. He frowns at the lingering hardness in her eyes, wondering if this is something obvious he’s been failing to notice lately.

“Go home. You’re looking too hard at it,” Don says. He taps the cherry off his cigarette into the ashtray as Peggy presses the heel of her hand to her eyes. “You’re right,” she says simply, but makes no move to leave.

“I’m good at my job,” she says after a beat, her voice quiet but determined. “I’m really good.”

“You are,” says Don.

Peggy shakes her head slightly, biting her lip. “It’s all I can think about,” she continues in a shaky voice, staring at the starkness of her veins on the insides of her wrists. “I just… I need to focus on something that I know will turn out okay. I know this job, I know what it needs,” she swallows, “and I know how to not fuck everything up.”

She folds her hands together in her lap, and Don notices the way she’s trying to hide their trembling as he puts out his cigarette. She’s avoiding looking at him.

“Peggy?” he asks, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. Her eyes finally snap to his and she points to the bottle sitting on top of a cabinet across the room, clearing her throat roughly.

“Can I have a drink?”

He pours them a finger of whiskey each and comes to sit beside her on the couch. Peggy accepts the drink gratefully, swishing the liquor around in the glass once, twice, before knocking it back in one gulp.

“I’m pregnant,” Peggy says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Don feels his breath leave him in a huff. “Jesus,” he replies.

Peggy nods, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping her lips. She and Stan have known for a few weeks now. It was a surprise, the doctor’s call coming on a Thursday evening in the middle of sandwiches from the deli: Stan’s face open and tender, his gaze so trusting when she tells him that it still makes something tighten deep within her chest when she pictures it. Up until today, she’s been trying to think of it as an abstract thing, far away like the boy she rarely lets herself imagine. Then the meeting with the Chips Ahoy executives happens, and they discuss their three-month plan for new TV spots – but all Peggy can think about afterwards is how in three months, their baby will have grown enough for her to feel, solid and tangible and terrifyingly present within her.

Don is quiet at her side, giving her space. She has a look on her face that he’s seen only once before and hasn’t wanted to see again – _playgrounds_ , he hears echoing in the back of his mind.

“Thirteen,” Peggy says suddenly, full of subdued awe. She blinks up at the ceiling with a dry twist to her mouth. “Almost a high school freshman.”

Don swallows his drink and sets the glass on the coffee table. “Stan know about that?” he asks.

“He does,” she affirms with a nod.

Peggy’s eyes soften after a moment, sparkling in her tired face. “He’s so happy about this, Don,” she murmurs with a warm smile. Stan’s been tentative in showing his excitement, careful not to overwhelm her, but he has this indescribable look come over him sometimes that Peggy clings to like a good luck charm. Don catches how she touches her middle briefly before pulling her hand away, as if she’s decided that he’s intruding on something private.

Don raises his eyebrows. “And how are you?” he asks carefully, the weight behind the words not lost on Peggy.

“Everything is healthy so far,” she says lightly, “Everything’s going well.” Peggy gives him a long, complicated look. She feels transparent under Don’s gaze, his familiar eyes cutting through to the parts of her that are so similar to his own, and suddenly she can’t fight the tears from rolling down her cheeks. Don fumbles with his handkerchief, presses it lamely into her palm.

“Stan knows about me,” she trembles, her eyes downcast, “but he doesn’t know about _after._ ” She crumples the handkerchief in her fist, her voice growing desperate. “I didn’t – I couldn’t even set foot in the hospital to visit Ginsberg. What if, I – what if – Stan -” Peggy cuts herself off with a sharp inhale.

Don reaches over and takes her hand in his, squeezing a little. Peggy grips it with a sob, the old pain and shame roiling hot and tight in her throat like it’s her first day back to Sterling Cooper after her leave; petty whispers about her absence echoing off the stalls in the ladies’ room. And there it is, the question that’s been inside her all this time, her fear too delicate, too raw to speak: _What if it happens again?_

“Peggy, listen to me,” Don urges gently, like he had by her bedside all those years ago, “You’re a different person now. It won’t be like – like it was. You were scared then, and young,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, his deep voice steady.

“I know.” She takes a deep breath, feels it course through her body.

“Look at everything you’ve done. Everything you’re doing now. You’re the most stubborn person I know,” he rumbles affectionately. Peggy sighs, carefully leaning her head on Don’s shoulder, her hand still firmly clasped in his. She’s getting his shirt wet, but it doesn’t matter.

“I should tell him,” she whispers.

“You went through a hard time,” Don says. “He won’t turn you away.”

They sit in comfortable silence for several minutes, the lights of the city twinkling outside the window. Peggy feels wrung out, the edges of her doubts seeming less sharp than they had before.

“God,” Peggy says in a tiny voice, “I don’t know how to be a mom.”

“So you’ll figure it out,” replies Don. “You always do.”

Peggy sits up then and sheepishly holds out the handkerchief for him to take. Don gives her a small smile, something in his expression that Peggy suspects is pride.

“Peggy,” he says seriously, “You can do this.”

“Thank you, Don,” she murmurs quietly, and not for the first time, she pictures herself doing it – pictures the feeling of sticky, chubby palms against her face after coming home from a workday, pictures Stan hanging crayon scribbles on their fridge – and she smiles.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “I should go.”

Don nods. He walks her down to the lobby and waits with her while she hails a cab. He motions for her to roll down the window once she’s inside.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Don says in a soft voice and raps twice on the top of the car, signalling to the driver to pull away from the curb. Peggy glances back over her shoulder at him, his figure growing smaller on the sidewalk as the cab speeds away.

She turns to give the driver her address, allowing her hand to slip through the buttons of her coat and press against the warmth of her abdomen, her thumb stroking small circles. _A little bit of joy in every chip_ , she thinks to herself.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Cookie Man' was a Chips Ahoy ad campaign that was apparently used throughout the 60s and into the early 70s.
> 
> For some reason, I have a feeling Peggy wouldn't have told Stan right away about her stay on the psych ward. The show often addresses the reason WHY she's there, but the aftermath of that is only really touched upon in that scene where Don tells her to move forward - I have a feeling that the loss of autonomy she experienced, recovery process, etc., is something that she may deeply repress and be reluctant to talk about.


End file.
